


Drowns

by stroopery



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: M/M, Object Insertion, but eh not really also, porn but not really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-01
Updated: 2014-12-01
Packaged: 2018-02-27 16:55:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2700359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stroopery/pseuds/stroopery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He bites into Stan's neck, Stan's shoulder, hearing his cries, revelling in it, at the way his name a litany on those kiss-swollen lips, and he breathes out,</p>
<p>"You'll let me do anything to you, right, Stanley?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Drowns

**Author's Note:**

> My first fic since, oh, I don't know, 4 years or so? I used to write Federinka quite a bit, under the name hiro_chan on Livejournal, so if there is anyone around who knows me back then - Hi :D!!!
> 
> I didn't think I would write fics again but after the whole PDA that is Davis Cup celebration, I literally just can't. 
> 
> There might be OOCness since I am kind of playing with the idea of Roger having a bit of a darker side. I hope it still works!
> 
> So, yeah, please have this not-so-porn, I hope you enjoy it!!
> 
> (I am still terrible at title...)

“Roger—“

His name dissolves into moans from Stan’s lips, ends with a choked breath as Roger shifts his hips, burying himself deep, deeper into the younger man beneath him. He shifts his hold on Stan’s wrists, the grip getting slippery with sweat. 

They have been going at it for quite a while now, Roger thrusting into Stan over and over but stopping just before they fall over the edge, again and again. The frustrated whine that Stan makes each time Roger draws them back from the edge is like sweet music to his ears, and makes Roger evenmore determined to see how long he could draw the whole thing out. 

There were tears tracks on Stan’s face, and as always Roger couldn’t resist but lean down and kisses them. Roger is always the more composed between the two of them, and it is why he is the one that do this to Stan – that, and he just loves seeing Stan like this, desperate and so needy of him, of Roger. 

“Roger, please, please –“

His breath puffs on Roger’s ear as he trails kisses on Stan’s face. His movement has stilled for now, just feeling Stan clenching and unclenching around him. Stan is warm around him, under him, and his tears a steady stream that cannot really be controlled now because he is so overwhelmed and Roger thinks maybe he should take pity on him, maybe this is enough, maybe it is time to get them over the edge and find release. 

But – 

“Hmm. Not yet, Stanley, not just yet.”

His voice is rough, because even if he is the more composed, the one in control, this is very much affecting him too. Stan is a sight beneath him, his head thrown back in frustration at Roger’s continuous denial for release, his skin flushed, and when he looks at him again, his eyes dilated so wide Roger almost cannot see any other color but the blackness of his pupil. 

“Not yet, Stanley. I still want to play.”

“- please please please –“

It is time like this, that Roger indulges in this feeling that Stan makes and allows him to feel. His public persona is about someone that is clean, pure, collected, unaffected. But there is something dark deep inside him, that is fiercely possessive of what he considers his, that wants to take and control and be obeyed. He is always careful to veil this side of him, because the world doesn’t need to know, because Mirka, strong woman that she is, will recoil and leave him if she knows about this and he can’t have that, no he can’t, he can’t. 

But Stan. The first time this has happened between them, when Roger’s control slipped after a drunken night out, and they tumbled into bed together, and Roger manhandled and bit and marked him, Stan – well, Stan didn’t run away. He looked at him, with those deep, expressive eyes of him, and instead of leaving, Stan had sought him out, and after the second, third, fourth time, Roger thought, this is it, this is where he does not need to pretend, this boy is his, his, his. 

And so it has been eversince. 

Stan trashes a bit under him, trying to retaliate, trying to make Roger move, for God’s sake please move, but Roger puts his weight firmly on top of him and he bit Stan’s ear and said,

“Hush.”

Stan’s body goes limp with a defeated cry at that, tension seeping out of his body, and Roger feels an intense feeling of love washes over him, at this show of submission and trust from the younger man, and for a moment he cannot breath, cannot speak. His hand releases Stan’s wrist and cups Stan’s recently clean-shaven jaw, and he kisses him, kisses him, deeply, wholeheartedly, intensely – the kind of kisses that is only for Stan when they are together like this. 

And Stan surges up, his freed hand latching on Roger’s damp curls, his lips parted, letting Roger in, taking anything Roger is willing to give him. He moans deep from the depth of his chest, as always, feeling overwhelmed by everything that Roger is doing to him, and his breath hitches and he feels like he wants to cry again. 

Roger pries Stan’s hand from his hair , his fingers wrapped around the younger man’s wrist again as he keeps it back in place on the bed. He moved his lips from Stan’s, hearing him whimpers, his lips trembling, and he kissed his cheeks, his temple, his eyelid, and he whispers, hotly, hoarsely,

“I love you. I love you. You are mine, Stanley, no one is going to have you like this, you are mine.”

Stan gives a whimper like he agrees, and Roger moves again inside him, a slow drawing out and a sharp thrust inside, and Stan lets out a punched out sound everytime Roger drives home. In the pheripheral of his vision, Roger can see Stan’s hand, placed on either side of his head, clenching into fist in time with his thrusts, and feel Stan’s tighs squeezing around his waist. 

He bites into Stan’s neck, Stan’s shoulder, hearing his cries, revelling in it, at the way his name a litany on those kiss-swollen lips, and he breathes out, 

“You’ll let me do anything to you, right, Stanley?”

His thrusts slowing down a bit and he repeats the question along Stan’s jaw, feeling the younger man trembling under him, kisses him again, just because, and receives his answer in the tilt of Stan’s head and the whispered “Anything, Roger, anything,” trusting the older man to push him far enough but not over the line that they have agreed. 

A shiver travels up Roger’s spine at this, in the face of such trust, and he squeezes Stan’s wrist, to anchor himself as much as for Stan. 

“Open your eyes,” he said, watching the man under him. “Look at me, Stanley.”

And he watches those eyes flutters open, heavy lidded, and Stan stares at him through his lashes, looking like it takes him all his effort to keep his eyes open. He breathes in soft puffs through his parted lips, and a fresh drop of tear starts to roll down the side of his face. 

Roger breathes and says,

“I feel like I want to work you open. Stretch you so good and so wide for hours and then – and when you are loose enough, I want to work the handle of my racquet into you, fuck you with it and you’ll take it, won’t you? You’ll take it so well like you always take me inside you –“

Stan’s lips part wider, his body shakes and he comes with a long scream without Roger having to do anything else, his come spurting and landing on his abs, his chest, his chin, and he clenches hard around Roger as the older man fucks him relentlessly through his orgasm. 

Through his blurred vision, Roger sees Stan, and thinks he has never been as beautiful as when he is like this, in the middle of orgasm, everything that makes the person he is being broken down and leaves just the core, the real person, the deepest soul, and Roger chases it, wants to capture it, wants to drown in it. 

He hears Stan’s cries, feels him trashes about under him, too oversensitive post orgasm to be fucked so thoroughly and roughly, but Roger cannot stop, and Stan does not resist him, does not say his safeword, instead tilting his hips in an effort to get Roger even deeper, and –

\- and the ball of heat that has been burning in the pit of his belly suddenly explode, and Roger comes, hard, with a shout in a voice he barely recognises as his, deep into Stan’s body.

It takes a while before he comes to awareness again, and the first thing he hears is the sound of Stan’s breathing, the slowly evening out of his breath after orgasm. He tilts his head and kisses the corner of Stan’s lips, his jaw, the crook of his neck, but when he moves to pull out, Stan’s hand grabs his and he says,

“No, stop. Please. Stay there for a few more moments?”

He asks in a shy way that makes many hearts fall for him, and of course, Roger has to comply with that, settling his body back on top of the younger man, releasing his tight grip on Stan’s wrist, and kisses the red marks his fingers makes there. 

In the lull that fills the air around them, a sharp contrast to how it was a few moments ago, there are so many things that Roger wants to say, emotions that expand his heart until it feels like it will burst, but he cannot find any word in his vocabulary that can express how the moment, how Stan makes him feel. 

So he lays his head on the pillow next to Stan’s head, nuzzling his face to the side of Stan’s face – so trusting, and so open, and so young – kisses him and says he loves him, hoping that Stan knows how intense and how deep his feeling goes. 

Later, later he will pull out of Stan’s body, grabs a wipe to clean them both and arranges their position so that he spoons the younger Swiss. Later, he will grab the comforter and pull it over them, sleep before the time comes when they have to disentangle themselves from each other and come back to the world as their own person, individually. 

Later.

For now, it is enough for them laying together like this, in each other embrace, away, hidden from the world, basking in the aferglow and their feelings for each other. 

-end-


End file.
